


Darkness Rising

by red_river



Series: The Other Guardian [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, mild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_river/pseuds/red_river
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't have to threaten you, Sam," Uriel sneered. "You aren't going to say anything. You never do." A clash with Uriel leaves Sam reeling from a wound even angels cannot heal, and leads Castiel to the roof of a dark church, and a confrontation a long time in coming. Cas/Sam pre-slash. Part of the Other Guardian 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. There is a more detailed note about it on my profile, but in brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.
> 
> This story is set in the fall, and centers around an encounter between Sam and Uriel, who isn't pleased with how close this "abomination" has been growing to Castiel.
> 
> Special note: In terms of 'verse chronology, this story is actually set after "Looking for Love in Las Vegas;" though originally a standalone story, "Las Vegas" has now been edited so that it fits into the Other Guardian 'verse. Also, I apologize for posting so late; this story is meant to be set in early October, not November.

**Darkness Rising**

Uriel had no patience for playing errand boy. But the will of God was absolute, and for all that patience was counted among the virtues, Heaven had never had much either.

With the shock of breath in flaring nostrils, Uriel's eyes snapped open to reveal the motel parking lot where his vessel had landed, the afternoon light heavy on the backs of the silent cars. The reek of exhaust and extinguished cigarettes burned in his body's feeble lungs, and Uriel sneered, already disgusted with his newest tenure in the shell of a human cockroach. The lot was silent, the anonymous motel rooms marked off along the walkway with interchangeable cairns of cigarette butts and crushed beer cans, not a soul, to borrow the clumsy human phrase, in sight. But walls and doors were nothing before angels, and Uriel could hear the rhythm of every heartbeat hidden inside those rooms without even listening. He turned his head slowly to regard number eleven, and then smiled to himself, stretching his formidable wings to their full spread.

Castiel had commanded him to leave the Winchesters alone until Heaven told him otherwise. And Uriel had done as he was tasked, though the reprimand had seethed within him, more rancorous every time he remembered it. But it was Heaven directing him now, not his superior—and much as he despised slipping into human skin for nothing more than a courtesy call, he couldn't deny that there was something eminently satisfying about disobeying Castiel. No—not disobeying. Overruling.

There was only one heart beating in the Winchesters' motel room, which suited Uriel. It was so much more enjoyable to deal with Sam alone.

Though months had passed and the Winchesters had relocated some distance significant only to ants, this motel room was just as filthy as the last one Uriel remembered: the disorder of clothes and bedding and greasy wrappers smeared with saliva, but none of these as disgusting as the film of decay humans left wherever they went—sweat and dry flakes of skin and fallen strands of hair, the dead parts of themselves sloughing off on everything they touched. Was there any other creature Death spent so much time dismantling, one cell at a time? Uriel recoiled from the room and from himself, his eternal grace seething in his own ever-dying skin. To think that Heaven, that God, that _Castiel_ expected him to revere these creatures, bloody and rotting from the moment they burst from the womb.

His agitation rippled through his wings and sent a flicker of wind out across the room, ruffling the curtains and the pages of the books spread across the small table over which Sam Winchester was leaning, his back to the angel, imprinting his saliva onto the surface of a pen. He looked up at the sudden current of air, and then whirled to face the room, smiling as he turned.

"Cas—!" The syllable died on his lips as he met Uriel's hard stare.

That infernal nickname. It took all of Uriel's restraint not to grind the teeth in his mouth to dust and atoms every time he heard the other angel—his superior, his battle commander, the soldier Heaven had chosen to fight his way through Hell to rescue one mewling human soul—addressed with such irreverence. As if _Castiel_ were not already a bastardization of the tones by which Heaven called him, the mud apes had taken it a step farther—a name never meant for human lips, chopped up into bite-sized pieces to suit their maladroit little tongues so they could spit and slobber all over it. And to know that Castiel tolerated it, encouraged it, to the point that this ill-bred atrocity in front of him would spin around with a smile on his face, as if he had a right to that profane chunk of sound…the aftertaste it left in his mouth made Uriel wonder if bile would have a better flavor.

At least Sam had stopped smiling.

"So sorry to disappoint," Uriel said, not bothering to keep the condescension out of his voice. Zachariah had commanded him to deliver a message; he hadn't said anything about being civil.

Sam opened his mouth again, and Uriel clenched his hand and stole the breath out of his lungs before the boy could soil his name, too. Sam choked and clawed at his throat—more than was really warranted for the few seconds before Uriel released him again, leaving Sam coughing and leaning heavily against the edge of the table. Uriel enjoyed the flash of fear through those wide hazel eyes, but it was gone all too quickly, replaced by something he'd never seen on the younger Winchester's face before: indignation, and the shadow of anger, as if he felt he had some right to object to how he was treated by God's soldiers. Sam gripped the back of the unsteady chair, rubbing his other hand across his throat.

"What do you want?" he ground out. Uriel took a step toward him and was pleased to see a little of the fear slip back into his expression, though the indignation remained.

"Let me assure you, Sam—it isn't about what I want. If it were, I would keep myself far away from the reek of your deformed little patchwork soul."

Sam's eyes flickered down for a moment, but he held his ground, only squaring his shoulders as Uriel's next stride brought them toe to toe. "So why do you keep showing up?" he challenged. Uriel felt the muscles of his face contort into a frown.

Something had changed in Sam Winchester. Somehow, in the months Castiel had kept Uriel away, this abhorrent little accident had lost his reverence for angels. Sam looked wary, but far from impressed—but it was more than that, because now that he was looking closely Uriel could see the shadow of Castiel's grace enveloping Sam, cloaking his skin in a holy sheen. He could hardly have been more saturated with it if Castiel had abandoned his own vessel and crawled into Sam. The realization simmered under Uriel's skin, his twitching wings making the curtains tremble. This was what Castiel had wrought with his foul indulgence—a half-man, half-monster with the same arrogance as his Hell-bound brother who'd been given a free pass. This was what humans became, when they were allowed to consort with angels. Uriel had never been so ashamed of his wings.

The angel tipped his head to the side, his eyes boring into Sam's as he wrestled with the urge to simply erase this blasphemous thing. He kept his voice low, but even so it was enough to whip the curtains into a shudder. "I am very tired of taking attitude from you over-evolved little primates. Your species may have developed a backbone 6 million years ago, but rest assured, I can still remember when you and every one of your defective forefathers came down to one gray fish wriggling up out of the sea, and it would not cost me a _thought_ to step back onto that shore and crush that fish, like I considered doing the first time. You and your brother and every other frail pocket of skin and bone you call human exists for no other reason than because Heaven wishes it. You would do well to remember that, when talking to angels." Uriel knew he was in hazardous territory, treading too close to anger; he moved backward half a step, centering himself in his vessel once more. "And really, Sam—it's rude to be so ungrateful when someone's doing you a favor. Heaven sent me to inform you and your brother that there has been demonic activity in this city, a few meaningless little souls going missing here and there. Something you might want to look into before your scrap-metal tumbleweed wanders onto the interstate again."

Uriel was not certain what reaction he expected. But it was not a long moment of silence and then a soft huff of air, the unmistakable sound of Sam scoffing at him as he raked his fingers back through the revolting strands of his dark brown hair.

"You know, my brother's right. You really are a dick." Sam met his stare without flinching, those close-set orangutan eyes staring back into Uriel's as he shook his head. "We came here tracking the demons. So the next time you think about doing us a _favor_ , just don't, okay? We don't want your help."

"You may regret that," Uriel told him, and felt the gravel in the parking lot quiver as he fought to restrain his annoyance. "Heaven does not dispatch its angels lightly."

"Yeah, well…" Sam took a step back, bumping into the table, and then turned as if to slip by him, one hand waving him off as he finished, "I'm sure if it was really important, they'd send Cas instead."

Afterward, Uriel could not decide whether it was that castrated name that snapped his composure, or whether it was the sight of Sam's back as this pariah at the crossroads of Heaven and Hell turned from him, as if Uriel were someone who could simply be walked away from. A torrent of rage seared through his being, like lightning when God's voice was a thunderclap and the whole world was a storm, and the next second he had seized Sam Winchester's forearm with one hand and squeezed with but a tenth of his might, that force alone enough to crush this construct of flesh and brittle bone. Sam cried out and crumpled to his knees, his face twisted in agony as he shrank from the angel—but Uriel did not release him, towering over this irritant at last as his true voice touched his tongue and set the windows rattling in their frames.

"You arrogant little pissant. Humanity is nothing before me, and you are so much less—a filthy half-breed crawling in human skin, destined for the rack and the flames. But for time, you are already burning." Sam's cries grew suddenly sharper, and Uriel felt something shift under his hand, one of those frail bones fracturing within his grip. It was an intensely satisfying crunch. Uriel held his position for another moment, relishing the intoxication of finally seeing him bend—then his grace burst through his hand and into Sam, white-hot with wrath, eradicating every remnant of Castiel's grace on his unworthy skin. Sam shuddered and collapsed toward the floor, his form sagging against Uriel's tight hold. "Remember who you're talking to," the angel murmured. Then he released Sam's arm and the young man crashed to the floor, and everything was silent once again except for Sam's heavy, desperate breaths, his eyes flickering open and closed as he clutched his arm to his chest.

Uriel could see at once that he had gone too far. The break was minor—far from the first spiral fracture Sam Winchester had ever been given—but where he had gripped the arm, he had left a much more impressive mark: a raised burn that glistened on Sam's skin, the shape of his hand imprinted in boiling red where his grace had burned too hot. Uriel clicked his tongue, annoyed. It was so difficult to discipline these infirm beings without leaving scars.

The moment Castiel returned to the Winchesters, he would know exactly what had happened, and he would read the residue of that grace as easily as if Uriel had seared his name into that dirty flesh instead of his fingerprints. Uriel spared a passing thought for his superior's disapproval, but the damage was done—there was no sense crying over broken bones. Sam struggled to roll onto his side, and Uriel felt vindicated to see fear in those hazel eyes again as he stared up at the angel, his own impotent hand pressed over the angry burn. Uriel shook out his fingers, enjoying the way the motion made Sam flinch.

"Well. I think I said what I came to say. If there's nothing else…"

Sam swallowed hard, everything about his expression telling Uriel he had stripped him raw. "Aren't you going to…threaten me not to tell anyone about this?"

Uriel considered. But one glance at Sam was enough to tell that he had put the repulsive creature back in his place—Sam was wounded and small at the feet of the angels again, just as he should be. Every last scrap of insolence had been purged from him, along with Castiel's grace, which he never should have touched.

"I don't have to threaten you, Sam," Uriel replied, his lips curling at the corners. "You aren't going to say anything. You never do." Then he unfurled his wings and vanished from that revolting plane, the last breath of human stench evaporating with his lungs.


	2. Chapter 2

It was all going to come crashing down.

Sam stared at himself in the mirror and dark shadows stared back from behind his eyes, the skin beneath them bruised and ugly from lack of sleep. The cracked mirror of the tiny motel bathroom was filmy with mold and scum, a viscous line of black staining the bottom edge and creeping its way up the wall, and looking at it Sam wanted nothing more than to take another shower, and then another, and another.

But Dean was out of patience with him. Dean was always out of patience. Sam let the cold water pool in his right hand and splashed it up into his face, watching through the broken glass as the droplets ran down into his collar of the long sleeve t-shirt he had rolled up to his elbows. He wasn't sure if the shiver down his spine came from the cold water or the faulty heater that seemed to be breathing cold air instead of hot across his bare toes. Maybe it had nothing to do with either of them. Maybe it was the fractured image of his still mostly useless left arm hanging limp at his side, its dead weight torquing his shoulder down at a sickening angle.

At first, when Uriel had grabbed him, Sam thought the angel had tossed him straight into the pit, and that the splintering pain was his arm burning from the inside out, his body already skewered on the rack. But when he'd finally managed to squeeze his eyes open, choking on a backlash of dust and bile, it was still only the stained weave of the carpet under his cheek, and all the dark shapes looming over him were just cheap pieces of knockoff furniture shrouded in the gloom that had fallen at some point while Sam struggled to get back inside his skin.

Sam's first thought was _Dean_ , but when he opened his mouth there was another name on his lips. He swallowed it down, biting his tongue hard enough to taste the familiar tang of copper. It was all too raw, too soon.

And he had started with the best intentions—to talk to Dean, to ask his brother's angel for the help he had urged Sam to take so many times, to prove Uriel wrong. But that was before he saw the handprint.

The light in the bathroom had just been a bulb in a ramshackle setting that swung freely from the loose hanging wire, painfully bare and blaring in his head like a siren as he staggered into the bathtub, desperate to get under the water though the showerhead was so low he had to sit down on the cold tile. The swaying light through the spray had made Sam nauseous—or maybe that was the fire that had never quite stopped burning under his skin, smoldering in the form of a handprint so much like the one on Dean's shoulder after his brother was pulled from Hell. Except that Sam was sure it was nothing like that at all, because even though Dean had never talked about it, had hidden that handprint under his leather coat until the last of it vanished from his skin, Sam was sure that Castiel's mark had never burned.

Uriel's handprint felt malevolent, like a living thing, a brand that warned against the evil in his blood. Or maybe it was just the part of Sam that had always hated himself, drawn to the surface like a poison. And somehow, crunched up in the shower with his head against the tile and the lightbulb singeing his eyes, all his good intentions had evaporated.

_I don't have to threaten you, Sam_. Uriel's voice was there in the bathroom, or in his head, or maybe just seared into his memory forever, another brand. And Sam hated it, had felt revolted just by the thought of giving the angel his way, but he had still stumbled his way out of the shower and fumbled through his bag one-handed to retrieve bandages and burn ointment. He wiped at the black smudge on his towel and tried not to think _char._

_You aren't going to say anything._

Sam almost blacked out just touching the braised, angry skin with the ointment. He smashed heavily against the doorframe, sending a shudder through the cheap wood and making the light shiver above him on its string. But there was no peaceful blackness behind his eyes—only dim impressions of pain, and fire, and the sickening scent or scorched flesh. So he gritted his teeth and covered the mark, wrapped it so that it was out of sight, and realized before he had even consciously decided what to do that he had already made plans to lie to Dean, already begun to live out the words Uriel had spat down at him. There were tears then, for the pain or the hopelessness, or maybe just because Uriel knew him better than anyone.

_You never do._

The agony had been too much to look up at the angel, but Sam knew now that he must have been smiling when he said those final words. Castiel had lifted his brother out of Hell, but Sam had become certain that someday Uriel would carry him in the exact opposite direction, only too happy to fling him onto the pyre.

It was all crashing down anyway, though. Because he had fended Dean off by claiming he had a migraine—which he had, for days now. Then he had admitted he wasn't feeling too well, then that he was sore, and with each successive lie, his brother's patience got a little shorter. And by now it was painstakingly clear to Sam that maybe the injury to his arm was worse than just a burn, and that it wasn't ever going to go away, and neither was his brother, not to mention the angel whose name he had been just shy of calling out every night, staring up at the cracked ceiling with aching, sleepless eyes—and when all these things finally converged, they were going to crush Sam, but he just couldn't bring himself to stop.

Which was why he was in front of another cracked bathroom mirror, his wet hair dripping into his eyes as he carefully wrapped his arm in another homemade bandage, torn strips from a blue shirt he could live without. Because if his shirtsleeve ever rode up a little, blue would be less conspicuous than the stark white of the gauze in their kit. It was a trick Sam had figured out growing up, when hunting accidents could easily turn into visits from Child Protective Services if anyone noticed them. He had learned the hard way never to tie the bandage too tight.

Maybe that was why he was still wrapping the layers of blue over and over the handprint that seemed like it might have burned all the way down to the bone: because he didn't want the treatment to make the injury worse. Because the second anyone knew, all the questions, the furious demands, the rushed treatments implemented too late—all of it would tighten around Sam, just like the ragged cloth that had limited the circulation to his fingers all those years ago. Only the pain this time would be ten times worse than the horrible burn of the blood flooding back into his fingertips.

Sam tied off the bandage and then pulled the sleeves of his t-shirt carefully down to his wrists, tucking a sliver of blue underneath the cuff. He snagged the sweater he'd left hanging from the doorknob, working it slowly over his head until one more layer of cloth covered his arm. He didn't bother to look in the mirror anymore—just took a deep breath before forcing his arm to hang loosely at his side and turning the doorknob. His stomach flip-flopped in sickening surprise.

Dean was standing right outside, leaning deceptively casually against the wall with a dark expression clouding his face. And Sam knew this was the beginning of the crash, because his brother had been waiting there silently—not threatening to barge in, or pounding on the door, or yelling vague threats about the near future that he never carried out.

"Sam."

That was all he said, and Sam wasn't sure if it was the serious expression or all the different things he seemed to be able to convey with that one syllable, but he found himself turning away, listing against the door as the fingers of his right hand dug into the weave of his sweater. Maybe he would start an argument; maybe after everything he'd put Dean through, he didn't deserve any patience; maybe the handprint on his arm was robbing his ability to think. His head was swimming, his vision going soft and watery and Sam wasn't sure if it was because he was about to cry or because he was drowning. He never got the chance to decide, because the silence between him and Dean was broken suddenly as a sound that he had been both hoping desperately for and dreading terribly rushed through the room.

Sam knew without looking exactly who was standing behind him. But he just couldn't bring himself to turn and say the name.


	3. Chapter 3

Uriel did not make himself difficult to find. The instant Castiel reached out with his grace, seeking the essence of the other angel, he felt an answering flare somewhere on the physical plane, barely far enough away to warrant the extension of his wings. In the seconds between ether and air, he wondered if Uriel had been waiting for him.

The roof of the church was cloaked with darkness and fallen leaves, the branches of the heavy trees that rose like monoliths on both sides of the sanctuary nearly bare already, though autumn was still new. The stars cast across the firmament illuminated the silhouettes of saints and apostles lined up precariously along the gutter, shoulder-high statues of rough, pale stone that glowed brutally stark against black sky. Uriel stood between Michael and Peter, poised at the very edge of the roof, looking down on the rustle of soft voices and men and women in black streaming through the church doors, their footsteps crackling on the leaf-strewn steps. Castiel folded his wings and took a step toward him, his eyes boring into the other angel's back.

"You raised your hand against him."

Uriel glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. The floodlights from the ground below cast strange shadows across his face. "Him?" he repeated, tipping his head toward the coffin being carried out of the nave, rocking in unsteady hands. "Trust me—he did this to himself."

"Don't play games with me, Uriel," Castiel ground out. He took another step forward, the yellow leaves splayed across the shingles withering before they even felt the crush of his weight. "I am here about Sam."

The name came out too sharply, whipping the leaves between them into a frenzy as Castiel saw again the uncertainty on Sam's face, felt the suffocating burn of foreign grace in his nostrils and raging across Sam's brutalized skin. Uriel sighed, turning away from the late mourners at last.

"Of course you are. Though I have to say, Castiel—I expected you much earlier. Really, who could have imagined that after months of hovering over the Winchesters like an embarrassing cliché, you wouldn't drop by to check on them for seven days?"

Castiel felt something inside of him clench, the same nauseating sensation he'd felt the moment he landed in the Winchesters' motel room and the proof of what Uriel had done blazed before his eyes. Seven days. Seven days attending to the affairs of Heaven, and then to return to find that in his absence Sam had been attacked not by some creature he and Dean set themselves against, but by an angel—an angel who belonged to his own garrison, who had been specifically instructed to stay away from him. His eyes flickered to Uriel's hands, those tenuously coiled fingers a perfect match to the scar where his grace that had curdled against Sam's skin, seared a brand all the way down to the crack in the bone.

Sam had seemed so tired, half-crumpled against the bathroom door as Castiel studied his injury and Dean predictably lost control of his temper. His face was sallow, and the hollows beneath his cheekbones had become dark pits, his entire form shrinking back against the wood as Castiel gingerly turned his arm over to inspect the burn, and the shadow handprint that lay beneath the skin, the shape of Uriel's contorted fingers carved into the bone. From the way Sam hissed as the pad of his thumb just brushed the edge of the blister, Castiel could only imagine the agony he had been in, the impossibility of sleep under the searing ache of grace that should never have been turned against him. Seven days, and Sam had not called for him, not even a whisper reaching out to him across the stars. There had been hesitation in those wide hazel eyes, as if Sam were reluctant to be touched, and Castiel did not know why, unless he was simply no longer willing to stand so close to angels, after what had been done to him. What Uriel had done to him.

The memory of Sam unable to hold his gaze sank into the hollow space in his chest, and Castiel's wings flickered in the thin autumn air, part of him longing to forget Uriel entirely and fly back to Sam as swiftly as possible, to do all in his power to lift the shadow from those resigned hazel eyes. But Dean hadn't been interested in his help. And there was something he needed to do before he could return and assure Sam that nothing like this would ever happen again. Castiel ground his hands into fists and felt the sinews straining in his vessel's fingers, his grace repairing the damage almost before it was done.

"What did you think you were doing?"

Uriel tipped his head, bemused, but Castiel did not let him speak, throwing his hand out toward the blackness at his back.

"You were told to stay away from them."

Uriel's face remained neutral, but a shiver of emotion rippled through the wings at his back, too brief for Castiel to tell what it was. "Unless Heaven required otherwise," he finished, a languid shrug rolling through his vessel's powerful shoulders. "I was asked to drop by."

"What you were asked to do was deliver a message," Castiel said. The roof of the narthex was wide, but much of the space was occupied by the silent apostles, and already he and Uriel were only a few feet apart, the darkness bristling with their bowed wings. "You were not sent to lay your hands upon him."

"Well," Uriel modified, "it was only one hand."

Castiel's wings snapped open at his back, his grace scorching like lightning through the feathers and leaving the acrid scent of ozone twisting in the bitter air. Uriel shifted as if to step back, and then caught himself at the edge of the gutter, the shadow of a laugh breaking from his lips.

"I'm surprised at you, Castiel. There's no need to be dramatic. I admit it wasn't my finest moment. I lost my temper—"

"You crossed a line, Uriel," Castiel interrupted, and felt the stone of the building quiver as the gravel edge of his true voice seeped into the words. "Can you not understand what a heinous thing you've done? You harmed a soul. Even after the burn heals, he will carry the mark of your grace on his soul for eternity."

"It was a mistake," Uriel bit out, and though the words almost seemed repentant Castiel could see the first sliver of anger shimmering in his dark eyes, his hands trembling slightly as he cast them out at his sides. "One infinitesimally small error when I lost patience with a creature on whose soul mine is far from the first mark. If not forgivable, certainly it's at least understandable."

Castiel lifted his gaze to the stars arrayed in the sky above them, his brow furrowed as his eyes slipped briefly closed. "We are angels, Uriel," he said, the words almost a whisper. "We are their guardians. We are not given God's grace so that we may twist it and raise it against them as a sword."

Uriel's head tipped to one side, and his expression was cold. "How strange, then, that we have been called to do so again and again."

In his eyes, Castiel could see the glowing specter of Gomorrah, the city purged even of its stone by the might of the angel before him—and then other catharses, the plagues of locusts, the blood of firstborn sons. Castiel remembered a time when he had stood by and watched the cities of sin burn, and thought nothing of it; but somehow what Uriel had done felt so different, directing his devastating will against one fragile being. Against Sam. Sam, who had struggled to meet his eyes, who had not so much as whispered his name in seven days. Castiel could not stand to think he might never say it again.

Uriel was silent for a long moment, waiting for a reaction; at last the other angel let his head plunge back, his vessel's thick neck exposed as he released a heavy sigh. "Aren't you tired of it, Castiel?" he asked, the angle of his neck narrowing his eyes to slits. "Being forced to coddle and pander to these beings who are _so much lesser_ than ourselves? Thousands of years bending and scraping for a planet overrun with insignificant little beasts who can barely keep their souls pure in the millisecond between cradle and grave?"

"Sam Winchester is not insignificant."

Castiel was not certain where the words had come from—was only certain, utterly certain, that they were true. He had lived an eternity and never known anything like Sam. Uriel only laughed, a breathless, truncated sound that always seemed to encompass such cruelty.

"He is a blink. He is a candle on a birthday cake. One breath and he is nothing but a collision of particles again. Atoms in the void."

Wrath was reserved for God. Angels had not been designed with fury in mind. But as his hands shook against the fall of his long coat and something like fire sparked along every nerve, agitating the stolen heart pounding in his chest, Castiel could not deny that this was rage, so thick in his blood that it was growing hard to breathe. It was all he could do to keep his voice level. "He—they—they are God's most exalted creatures, Uriel. It is them that He holds in the highest honor, above even the archangels. Our only purpose is to safeguard their souls."

"Well," Uriel murmured under his breath, "maybe it's time we sought out a new purpose."

His words left Castiel cold. A hush seemed to fall over the night, not so much as a leaf scraping over the shingles as he stared across the roof at his brother, this warrior who had battled beside him since the earth split and unlocked Hell, and searched for answers in the shadows of his face. All at once he could feel the chill in the midnight air, the whisper that winter was gnawing at autumn's heels. The mourners were gone from the steps below. Uriel's mouth was set into a grim line, but otherwise his expression revealed nothing, as impassive as the graven saints. Castiel pressed his lips together.

"Be cautious of your blasphemy, Uriel," he said, softly because the whole world seemed to be listening. "Remember why Lucifer was cast out of Heaven."

Uriel's back was to the light, but his eyes glittered nonetheless, harsh with malice. "Perhaps you're the one who should exercise caution, Castiel. There's more than one way for angels to fall."

Castiel's wings whipped back, lashing a torrent of leaves into the air around him as his grace burned through his vessel, his outrage glowing in his narrowed eyes. "You are out of line," he growled, his true voice rattling the windows of the clerestory below them. "You have let your emotions cloud your judgment."

Uriel's laugh was sharp and incredulous, snapping in Castiel's ears like a breaking bone. "I—I have let my…" His wings beat feverishly against his back, casting wild shadows across the shapes of the silent apostles. "How can you say that to me, while you stand there defending the spawn of a demon and the worst kind of human weakness—"

"Enough," Castiel ground out between his teeth, the command chasing a crack through the dark panels of stained glass. But Uriel barely seemed to hear him, his voice rising until the whole roof rang with it.

"You were not so sentimental when you served in Heaven. Don't think I've forgotten who you were in the days before you were sent to Hell to retrieve Dean Winchester's soul. Every last one of us had something to say about the Righteous Man being brother to the last of Azazel's abominations, the boy with—"

Castiel's wings swept forward, a tidal wave of his grace crashing into Uriel before he could spit out the words. For an instant, through the blinding haze of his fury, he thought Uriel would be thrown from the roof—he caught himself at the edge of the gutter, one thrashing arm locking around the neck of Saint Peter, and where his hand scrabbled at the saint's back Castiel saw the stone disintegrate around his fingers, Uriel's own unsteady grace carving through the layers of rock as though it were sand. Castiel's wings retreated once more, his gaze locked on Uriel's startled face as he watched surprise and indignation and then at last, always, a deep, thrumming rage swirl through his dark eyes, his fingernails hissing as they dug into the stone. Castiel stood his ground, only the leaves moving in a sinister wind.

"You will not call him that."

Castiel could not imagine how he had ever said those words himself, staring into Sam's earnest, hopeful eyes with the warmth of that reverent hand cradled in his palms. He could not imagine how the words hadn't burned his lips on the way out.

Uriel got slowly to his feet, untangling his limbs from the disfigured apostle and brushing the dust of broken stone from his suit with long, slow strokes. When his eyes found Castiel's again, they were black as the pits between the stars overhead, the bonfire of his grace seething just under his skin. "You have lost your way, Castiel," he said, so quietly the wind almost swallowed the observation. "You are so far gone you can't even see what they've done to you. But take my word for it: you are diminished."

Castiel's wings shifted at his back. "What I am, Uriel, is very tired of dealing with you." He erased the last bastion of distance between them, the toes of their shoes brushing as Castiel regarded his subordinate with hard eyes, the night air suddenly so cold that he was watching Uriel through the fog of his breath. "Sam Winchester is under my protection. Harm him again, and there will be consequences."

"Is that a threat?" Uriel challenged.

"It is a _warning_ ," Castiel told him, never blinking as they exchanged stares. Uriel's body tensed, as if preparing for a clash, but Castiel could see that one of his wings was still curled in, protecting the spot where his grace had slammed into Uriel's, leaving a mark of its own. After a long moment Uriel backed down, the impression of his grace dwindling to a simmer.

"I understand," he said, a shower of white dust drifting from his clenched fist.

Castiel nodded. "Good." Then he turned away and evaporated into the darkness, letting his wings carry him back to where he truly needed to be—a dimly lit motel room with a new crack in the bathroom mirror, and a bond he prayed was only bruised, not broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue to go, which will hopefully be posted later tonight. Thanks for reading, everyone.


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The pancakes had seemed like a good idea when Sam started. He and Dean had decided to spend a few days holed up in a furnished apartment, which meant a furnished kitchen, although in this case Sam felt like the Craigslist ad had oversold it a little—the kid they were subletting from was vacationing in Belize, and apparently he'd needed all his pots and pans, because the only things Sam had found in the classic particleboard cabinets were a stack of disposable party goods, three spatulas and a cast iron skillet that had definitely passed through the Goodwill a few times. But cooking had still seemed easier than shopping, especially with his left arm locked in a lumpy white cast and bound in a sling.

Everything had blown over, sort of. It had been seven days since all his secrets came crashing down—seven days of Dean grumping about angels and crappy extended-stay motels on the I-80 corridor and occasionally spouting off about what he'd do to Uriel, if the angel ever showed his shoplifted face in their neighborhood again. Seven days of Castiel dropping in every night to check on him and staring right through him with those deep blue eyes, and then easing Sam to sleep with two fingers on his temple, that soft contact as he drifted off enough to keep the nightmares away.

Castiel had explained that he couldn't do anything about the mark or the underlying fracture until Uriel's grace had dissipated, but the fact that Sam's arm looked like he'd been assaulted by someone with a griddle for a hand meant the hospitals were out, too—which was how he and Dean had wound up in the office of a kooky veterinarian who agreed to treat him under the table for the right price. Aesthetics aside, she seemed to have done a fine job on the cast, but it was the first time since he was about six that Sam had been asked _not to wiggle too much while I put the plaster on, okay, honey?_ Dean almost plunged them through a guardrail on the way home and killed them both, he was laughing so hard. Sam reached across to slug him with his good hand, but there wasn't much force behind it. It was good to hear Dean laughing again, even if it was at his expense.

Sam had learned long ago that the domesticity of their living arrangements was inversely proportional to the quality of bar Dean sought out in any given city. Bunking one night in an abandoned subdivision? Maybe he and Sam would hit a bar where the lights were bright enough to tell there was nothing biological on the floor, or just grab a six-pack from the closest 7-11 and stay in for once. Four nights in a furnished apartment, on the other hand? Dean had made a beeline for the seediest bar in the township as soon as Sam gave him the green light.

Sam didn't really mind. It was kind of nice to have a few hours without his brother hovering over his shoulder—or that was what he'd thought, until it was time to forage for food. A nearly expired carton of milk and an unopened box of Bisquik in the upper cabinets made the decision easy; the pancakes themselves, however, were putting up a hell of a fight.

Sam wrinkled his nose as he considered the newest disaster, one seared edge flapping as it hung all the way out over the lip of the pan. He'd made it through the batter stage just fine one-handed, but without a second hand to hold the skillet steady for the flip, all he could manage were blackened Frisbees and half-charred pancake tacos with sloppy, uncooked filling. Dean probably wouldn't have cared, but Sam wasn't that desperate yet.

The whisper of wings at his back spun a white Bisquik whirlwind across the kitchen counter. Something instinctive clenched inside of Sam, his adrenaline racing with the memory of fear and pain that seven days had eased but not erased—then he let out a breath, and forced himself to relax, finding his smile again as he turned to meet solemn blue eyes.

"Hi, Cas."

For seven days, every time he said that name it was like breathing a sigh of relief. He could see it in Castiel, too—a slight softening of his shoulders as the angel stepped forward, studying Sam's face like he was memorizing something for future reference. Sam tried not to let that unnerve him too much.

"Sam," the angel greeted.

Sam had never thought his name was anything special. But he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to the way Castiel said it: like it was question and answer, request and offer all at once, like even though eleven thousand new people every year were named the exact same thing, those three letters were sacred somehow when they applied to him. Maybe that was just what happened when an angel said your name. Sam rested his spatula on the edge of the skillet so he could tuck his hair behind his ear. "Hey, um—you want to help me with this? Turns out I could use another hand."

"What are you making?" Castiel asked, moving to stand at Sam's shoulder and peering at the mangled heap of dough in the pan. Sam ducked his head as he scraped it out onto a paper plate with the other rejects.

"Pancakes. Allegedly."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "Those do not look like pancakes, Sam," he said, with all the gravity of a surgeon announcing time of death. His serious expression made Sam laugh—or maybe it was the little thrill he got at the realization that Cas knew enough about pancakes to criticize his technique.

"Like I said, I need help. Here—just hold the skillet, okay?"

Castiel had always been gentle with him. It was one of the things that Sam had noticed first about him, one of so many that made his heart jump a little in his chest—that even though he filleted monsters for a living, even though he was six-four with broad shoulders and Cas was like a supernova in a paper doll, Castiel's hands were always soft when they reached out for him. But the last seven days, Sam could tell the angel was treating him as if he were literally made of glass—even now, steadying the frying pan with a threadbare potholder and standing so close behind him that Sam's back tingled where their electrons were passing back and forth, Castiel had been careful not to touch him. There was a strange tension between them, like something had been cracked and the pieces that once fit so naturally were just a little misshapen now, the edges aligning differently than they had before.

Sam knew that was his fault, mostly. Even though he knew whose hands they were, that those long, pale fingers would never hurt him, he hadn't been able to stop himself from jerking back when Cas was first inspecting the handprint Uriel had left on his arm. For seven days he'd been trying to find the words to explain that it hadn't really had anything to do with Castiel—it was just too much, too fast, with Dean shouting in his ear and Cas looking up at him like he was blaming himself for so much more than a slight fracture and a reminder that, as usual with the supernatural, it was never as simple as good and evil. But he was starting to worry that he'd never feel the soft slide of those hands again, brushing his arm in passing or just resting on his shoulder, knocking him completely out of his skin with the most casual touch. Sam knew he couldn't give that up, no matter what it cost him.

Slowly, one centimeter at a time so that he didn't startle either of them, Sam leaned back until he could feel the warmth of Castiel's chest against his left side, the elbow that poked out of his sling at an awkward angle pressing softly into the folds of the angel's coat. His body heat rippled through Sam like a wave breaking over the shore. He felt Castiel's gaze on his face, searching for something in his expression—Sam kept his eyes resolutely on the skillet as he flipped the latest pancake, his lips quirking up at the perfect circle of golden brown.

He was scraping the last of the batter into a beat-up measuring cup when Castiel spoke.

"Why didn't you call for me, Sam?"

There was no need to ask what the angel meant; the blackness and the pain were right there, hovering at the back of Sam's mind even through the heady scent of pancakes and the haze of warmth up and down his left arm. Sam tipped the measuring cup out over the pan, spinning a slow circle of batter in the center of the skillet.

"Honestly, I don't know, Cas," he said at last, so quietly he wasn't even sure the angel could hear him over the sizzling pan. "I wanted to. I guess I just…didn't want it to have happened."

Castiel shifted against his back; without looking at him Sam could tell he didn't understand, but he let it be, just one more silly human thing that didn't make sense to angels. He was quiet a long time before he replied.

"But you will call for me next time."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, Cas. Promise," he finished, turning his head to catch those striking blue eyes. Castiel stared back at him and Sam could feel that powerful gaze shooting right through him, turning him inside out and inspecting every bone. His breath caught as the angel's fingers ghosted over his back, wondering if Castiel had finally seen his own name inscribed in Sam's heart.

"I can't stay right now," Castiel told him, as his arm fell back to his side. "There are other matters I have to see to. But I will return tomorrow—and finally repair this," he added, resting a soft hand against the white plaster of the cast. Sam felt the last knot inside of him unraveling as he realized for the first time that Cas would fix everything before the cast came off. He had already seen the dark handprint scorched into his flesh for the last time.

For a second he was transfixed by the image of Cas's hand on his forearm, his pale fingers soft against the uneven plaster—the same place as Uriel, an angel like Uriel, another supernova wheeling overhead. Then he dropped the spatula and covered Cas's left hand with his right, and squeezed.

"Thanks, Cas," he said, and hoped the angel could read all the rest of it in his eyes.

Castiel had released him and was already turning away before Sam realized there was something else he wanted to say.

"Hey, Cas?"

Castiel paused, looking back at him over one shoulder, and from the way his body angled into the motion Sam thought he could almost picture the angel's wings protruding from his back, curved around him to accommodate the kitchen ceiling, one of the radials curled higher as if in question. Sam wiped his free hand down his worn-out jeans, his mouth dry with sudden longing to see them for real.

"Um, I told Bobby Dean and I'd stop by for Thanksgiving—a couple weeks from now. You should drop in, too. It's kind of a family thing," he added, almost without meaning to, and then wondered what Cas would understand from that, and whether this screwed-up half biological family was something the angel would want to be a part of even if he did. But Castiel only nodded, his shoulders relaxing, and for just a second Sam almost believed that the watery glow around the angel wasn't the light from the overhead lamp, but the haze of long feathers as Castiel extended his wings, preparing for flight.

"I would like that, Sam," he said, the shadow of a smile touching his lips. Then the angel was gone, and Sam was left in the cheap kitchen with a plastic plate full of drooping pancakes and the crackle of the aging stove, ducking his head though there was no one left to see his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this. Thanks for all the comments. There's a big holiday story coming up in the Other Guardian 'verse; look for the Thanksgiving story going up in the next few days.


End file.
